Russia. I need to learn more.

Russia has always been a mystery to me. I need to learn more about Russia. But, for today, during this brief 24 hour period, it will stay a mystery because I am going to Spain. That's right, I said Spain. Two months to crush it in Monserrat and El Chorro. Some of the best climbing in Europe? Can that be said?
I made a hard decision. Quitting a job is never any fun.

A pause in responsibility towards the leisure intensity; I need a little break. This may not be the wisest choice considering monetary issues, but really, if you think about it from a daily perspective, life is short. This seems to tie into the idea of prospective future plans - planning the plan. Guilty as charged with the lure of anticipation. But really, how long should we depend on the existence of life? I am not trying to invite the existentialist inside, I am only trying to illicit the pressure of the fact that life will inevitably change as it does. Do we want to wait out the bullshit with our unrelenting patience or can we appreciate and be thankful for the moments where the sun shines on our faces and tickles our spirits with a blessing of luck and prosperity? Take advantage of the situation so-to-speak. Grab the bull by the horns. As those who know me best, they understand my impulsive decision-making personality. I recognize this within myself and coyly admit that it is not the most admirable trait. Troubles arise once and awhile. It could be admirable and undoubtedly is in some cases I guess, but there are hidden demons within. Well, demons who work for temptation and her beguiling ways; tempting away from the expected. So, in fact, the demons are disguised angels with a little message for us all.

Breathe
Things are as they are
I do not mind what happens
This too will pass…
Que sera sera.

And Carpe Diem Mother F***ers!!!

I await another unknown adventure… which is electrifying!

The Society of the Spectacle and El Gripe Porcina

Captors of our creative minds live in the waves of boredom that wash upon us when monotony reigns. Boredom can capture a soul and send it to places worse than hell. Recently, I have been sent to tedious mind-numbing habit hell. I needed something to wake my brain from its caustic slumber. I was suggested to read Guy Debord’s SOCIETY OF THE SPECTACLE . We are not unknown to the fact that media bombardment overrides any sense of real individuality that is left on this planet. We have not only been subjugated to the economy, but we have in essence grasped the spectacle and made it our “unreality” which is very real. As Guy Debord puts it so eloquently, “In a world that is really upside down, the true is a moment of the false”. Immunity from the spectacle is impossible.

As I read this book that has indeed furthered my introspectivivity (if that is even a word), I realize that this subjugation is reinforced by the fact that people’s activity becomes less and less active and more and more contemplative.”

Ding Ding Ding, the light bulb goes on. I will bravely admit that although my job is easy for 32 of 40 hours a week where I act as a place holder made of flesh and blood and bone that hopefully has a relatively conscious state of being, most of the time, it is blood curdling boring. It is boredom because everything is so convenient in this western life we live. My brain has now sunk into the depths of contemplation and deliberation, reflection and inspection as my body sinks into this office chair.

This brings me to how the media – being the most obvious “spectacle” - is a colossal component of our conscious mental states. It has become what is happening to us and others in our immediate environments – our society. Now that our dear old friends at the local and international newspapers continue to be contented to share things that shock us into oblivion of worry. Swine Flu; originally bought upon us as “El Gripe Porcina.” As the pandemic’s popularity stabilizes, other worlds of top breaking stories rise to the forefront and poor piggy is left in the trenches. Autumn is in its difficult transition towards the bitter winter and in South Korea the little kiddies are playing on the worries of their spectacle-enchanted parents. Where face masks are the new fashion, students are dropping out of the classroom like flies in the freezer. They’ll be fine once they thaw out – once the excitement passes. Precaution is of utmost importance to the point of warranting a temporary closing of the country high school. Although no virus virulent enough to seize me has entered into the hollows of my immune system, I am told to wear a mask. Of course in the name of precaution.

If you are interested in furthering your conscious self towards the spectacle, read Ken Knabb’s translation of Guy Debord’s SOCIETY OF THE SPECTACLE online at http://www.bopsecrets.org/SI/debord/index.htm

Action Direct Audition: The Jangeunbang Ukulele adventure

Only 3 weeks of playing the ukulele. It is my new toy. More practice needed!
This is a tribute to my Big Wall Jam Band Buddies!
Go on YOU TUBE and search for:
"nationalpickleday" or
"Part (1,2,3) Climbing to the sky in a sea of tyranasaurus teeth"
or
"Action Direct Audition"

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kVCFMHmgQ_4

Rusty Boats and Jagged mountain peaks

This time luggin a smaller tote, Alec and I set off to the magnificent Seorak Mountains near the coast of the East Sea in South Korea. The smell of fishing villages and old rusty boats reminds me on Halifax and New Zealand. Good memories. There is something majestic about old rusty fishing boats. They show the multitude of scars and battle wounds from a life out at sea. A rough life, a tough life. They have a history forever etched into the sepia skinned steel that coats their exterior and they gently rock in the swell of natures fondest unknown, the ocean.

A most wondrous multi-pitch of heady trad and sport mixed, I decided to haul my ukulele to the top obliged to audition for ACTION DIRECT, the big wall jam band. This route, called Alpine Crutch/Clutch/Crux however you interpret the Korean pronunciation, gets more difficult the higher you go ending with 2 most brilliant 11a. pitches, courteously and courageously lead by Alec himself. The best part about the last pitch was a little warning squeak as I camed my fingers into the only but sweetest hand hold insight. I had disturbed a teeny tiny brown bat as he took refuge from the heat of the sun. His beady eyes were no bigger than a pin-head and his little nose the size of the polka-dots on your childhood rubber boots. I gingerly adjusted my grip and gazed at the precious wonder of nature hiding 150 metres off the deck. Scared and shaking in its refuge I carefully climbed past and met Alec on the summit. The ukulele was out and the jamming began in the honour of my Belgian friends Nico and Sean. Oh yes, I must mention that I have never played an instrument before and I only picked up the ukulele 3 weeks ago. I am still in the ubiquitous learning curve, but practice makes perfect as the cliché goes. Watch the videos and cross your fingers. I hope I pass the first round of auditions!

"You call this a send fest, I call it a choss pile."

One month before my 28th birthday I come close to death but cheat it by only seconds and a few feet. At 4:30 on Friday I ran out of the door of the school, across the parking lot, through the soccer field and up the stairs to my modest two bedroom Korean apartment where my jam-packed bag sat patiently waiting. Ready to go, I lugged the dead weight of all my camping-climbing equipment on my back and headed down the rural village road towards the country bus stop. My destination was Muido, an island off the coast on Incheon. It is only a few kilometers from the Incheon airport, the international hub where people from all over the globe meet South Korea for the first time.

I met up with my climbing buddies and we all crammed into their modest two bedroom Korean apartment and cozied up in our sleeping bags on the kitchen floor for a night of dreamless sleep. To get to Muido Island, one must go to the Incheon airport and jump on a local bus there. The reason for our weekend extravaganza was to be the first Wey-gook-in foreigners to climb on Muido’s newly bolted seaside crags (this could be a lie, but to my knowledge, it is completely and utterly true.)

At low tide, the tide is very low and all the crags are accessible by walking along the seabed littered with seashells, oyster remnants and crustaceans of all kinds. As we began the search for climbable rock, we soon feasted our eyes upon the ubiquitous anchors that we have grown to love and trust so much over the years. It looked like some promising sport climbing on orange volcanic rock. The base of some climbs are riddled with white barnacles, enemies to my new evolve shoes. The grades are a rainbow of difficulty to warm us up or shut us down, to both we had been inclined to accept. With no guidebook, we chose the most beautiful lines in sight. My partner and I, Dan chose an easy-ish warm up to get the feeling of this new and foreign rock. New areas tend to be prone to loose rock and a lot of unknowns, so easy does it. I was also treading on new shoes that I had yet to trust fully. After I had on-sighted what seemed to be no more than a 5.9 in difficulty, it was Dan’s turn.

I must now, before the story continues, give credit to all the inspirational climbers that have molded my passion and allowed me to hone my skills as a dedicated lifer of climbing. Dani D Love, Napolean, Tomas, Ana Gabriela, Beckett, Eli, Eva and Wesley among many others. I have learned from some of the best.

Ok, so Dan leads a smooth clean climb and at the top after clipping the anchors, right before I am about to lower him to safety, I look up and see a microwave-sized boulder from the 80’s lean onto his chest in slow motion. In complete disillusionment, he could say nothing, just as he could barely understand what was happening. At this point, I knew it was going to fall straight into the hands of gravity. I scurried to the right, hugging the wall as close as I could and suddenly fell backwards over a barnacle covered rock. While keeping my break hand secure on the rope, I still was able to hold Dan precariously at the sketchy anchors fifteen metres above. Holding my breath, closing my eyes, scrunching my face and praying to the powers that be that the microwave and its deadly pizza pop shrapnel wouldn’t decapitate me.

The loud smash knocked me back into the present moment. In a 10 second fuzz I yelled at Dan. “Are you OK?“Yes. Are you OK?”“Yes.” I reply as I shook my head in disbelief in a dust cloud of rock debris. In less than the minute that followed I surveyed the damage. Inches from my feet lay 4 pieces of fresh rock fall the size of toasters and the microwave itself, larger than first perceived to be, 2 feet to my left.

Despite the helmet if any one of those pieces were to hit me we would have had some serious carnage on our hands and probably 2 dead bodies. Me dead and Dan dead because after I died, I would have let go of my brake hand and dropped him. Just before I was about to lower him, I had to make sure everything really was OK. There was so much more fresh debris than I originally had noticed, At least 5 other stove pot-sized rocks and a bunch of golf balls carpeted the bottom of the climb. “Don’t’ move. Don’t touch anything” I yelled up at Dan. With my instincts in on red alert and having learned so much from the people who raised me up in the climbing world, I knew I had to check the rope. Literally 6 inches below my break hand, the rope was sliced, 3/4‘s through the core. Totally ******. If I was to miss that essential detail and lower Dan, it most certainly would have snapped and sent Dan plummeting. Bogue, another climber friend of ours ran around the corner. He had heard the rock explosion, but had heard no screams. He thought he was about to be witness to the serious bloody aftermath. I asked him to go and fetch another rope. He would have to rescue Dan by leading the route again and rapping down one after the other. Once everybody was safe on the ground, we got the hell outta there. For the first climb of the day, it no less than muddied our mental fortitude.
For the rest of the day, we all climbed with a little unease and doubt in the rock we confronted. We became ballerinas, cautiously dancing up the rock, checking every hold a little more than necessary. On My 3rd lead of the day, I pulled off a teapot sized handhold but somehow managed to keep my barn door balance and not take the whipper that could have been. “Rock” I called and Dan was warned in plenty of time. After rebalancing myself and a couple moves later on a nice little ledge I called down in a mouthful of disbelief, “You call this a send fest, I call it a choss pile”.

All things considered, the day improved, our heads returned to rock warrior mode and we found the sweet potential that was waiting in store for us all along. Lacey was leading up a storm, the first of many to come and Phillipe and Bouge in constant brotherly competition were pushing their limits as always. As we moved along the beach, the rock became solid and the lines were quality. We found ourselves good and pumped as the day came to a close and the tide began to creep back in towards the dry sand. With our tents pitched on the beach, the 5 of us gathered around a fire and retold the story with all the “what if’s” we could imagine. “What if I was 2 feet over? What if I didn’t see Dan holding the Boulder and about to drop it? What if our other friends were standing there? What if I didn’t notice the rope and lowered Dan and it snapped? What if, What if, What if?

The truth is all moments in life are filled with what ifs. What happens, happens and what is done is done and this time we were damned lucky.
A little advice for the newbie climber or just a refresher for you veterans:-Always wear a helmet outdoors, especially in new areas.-Check any suspicious holds with a delicate tap of the hand,-Pay attention to each other. Don’t get distracted by social chat or mind wanderings. Be 100% present.If there is rock fall…-Belayer, move as far to the side as possible out of the line of trajectory.-Climber, yell out “ROCK!”-Check the rope as soon as possible for any weaknesses. (Rock fall can cut a rope just like that.)-Never let go of the break hand, even on auto locking belay devices.-And ****, while remembering safety first, don’t forget to have fun.

www.koreaontherocks.com

Time. Paying attention to the present moment.

I looked at the clock and it was only 10:58 am. OOF. Time goes slow when you are paying attention to time. I promised myself I would continue to engage my life in the present moment but when you have to sit in a desk for 32 of 40 hours a week with nothing to do in the South Korean country side besides read a lot of great books (which ain’t so bad), the present moment becomes a playground for the imagination of future and past delinquencies. Keeping a blog must mean that from time to time it is to be updated. With nothing much to say than a flutter of experiences experienced, I feel that the explanation of such events would alter their significance or make them more superfluous than they really were. Pictures tell a thousand words, but words construct a picture in the mind that is original to each reader every time. If everyone sees the same picture, there is nothing left to the imagination. Words however make the experience personal. Who really cares about what happens to me anyways. I could tell you that no matter what happens to me, I will continue to live and view life through a positive lens. I could tell you how I missed my flight from Denver to Calgary and that I tried to pass the time with red wine and that we all know what happens next. I could tell you that after that red wine, those little airplane barf bags were my best friend for the following 3 hours as we glided at a cruising altitude of 3000 metres over the Rocky Mountains. I could also tell you that I spent my vacation doused in illegality, indulging in the low-responsibility fix of someone who is fortunate enough to have said vacation paid. And how I was able to meet and revel in the company of old friends, even though said meetings were scheduled by the hour.

Time. A man-made (probably not woman-made) construct that we all are, have been or will be a prisoner to at least once in our lives. From time to time (no pun intended), we are able to escape these boundaries that Time forces upon our experiences. These are the greatest moments of life. Leisurely existing for the purpose only to exist without the question of “what time is it?”. Ahh. That sounds nice. Some people are too bound by time to notice the beauty of simplicity that surrounds them. Listen to the birds and welcome the bugs and insects however pesky they may be. We say we are too busy. We make excuses. Those excuses are a choice. Those excuses are a mentality. I could tell you that no matter what happens to me, I will continue to live and view life through a positive lens and that I am only somewhat bound by time. I have the choice, I have a certain mentality. And I have now updated my blog.

A Summer Consciousness

Summer approaches like a runner from the bullet of a gun and the garden is an explosion of edible greens. I just finished reading “The Tracker” by Tom Brown Jr – a perfect segue into becoming ever more attentive to the growing things and hatching swallows and croaking frogs as the summer creeps along. I now begin to delve into “A New Earth” by Eckhart Tolle. Fighting within myself to express what I feel deep inside is always a challenge. I do what I know how. I speak and I write in hopes of articulating and thus reflecting upon the “deep down”. I use words (as I am now) and simple sounds produced by the vocal chords I was taught to use when I was young to convey the meandering development of my sense of self.

Tolle asks me, and in turn I ask you if “you believe some combination of such basic sounds could even explain who [we] are or the ultimate purpose of the universe or even what a tree or stone is in its depth?” To say the least, our words, as Tolle puts it, “no matter whether they are vocalized and made into sounds or remain as unspoken thoughts, can cast an almost hypnotic spell upon [us]. [We] easily lose [ourselves] in them and then become hypnotized into implicitly believing that when [we] have attached a word to something, [we] know what it is. The fact is: [we] don’t know what it is, [we] have only covered up the mystery with a label” (pg. 25-27). When two people learn about each other, bull-shit pushed aside, they undoubtedly recognize and experience something superior than words can express. Call it a connection of energy, a synergistic exchange, whatever you call it, in the process of sharing, you will inevitably have to confront your inner self and deal with it how you will. Through habit, through custom, through obligation or through enlightenment, some of us will have a ways to go.

Last weekend, I joined a flock of native English teachers on a beach bound fieldtrip to embrace an awesome display of culture presented in the Dano Festival. I asked our bi-lingual guide “우 리 무 엇 할 거 요 - u-ri mu-eot hal ko-yo?” (in English, “what are we doing?), as I followed a weaving tour in and out of museums and kiosks admiring the display of ancient hair washing, mask dancing and giant swing competitions. In Gangneung, Gangwon-do, not only did I gather a handful of new Korean phrases to express my wit, I also was acquainted with the history of one of Korea’s intangible cultural events as designated by UNESCO in 2005. The festival itself, and not just the budding green trees were in the mood to welcome summer. In the spirit of hoping for favorable farming weather, a whole seaside village prepared its welcoming festivities.

One particular fascinating demonstration of time-honored art was the Pansori. Pansori communicates the tradition of Korean satire and love-stories through the masterpiece of oral story telling in opera form. On stage, there is one signer and one drummer. They engage in an interchange of percussion and vocal acknowledgements that recognizes a story being told. As the singer becomes engulfed in the story itself, her passion and energy are expressed through emotional intensities. The performance I saw in Gangneung was mesmerizing and captivating in its ardor.

The patriotism of the Korean culture is more evident as traditional festivals are celebrated. Koreans are confident being connected to a culture unique from their Asian counterparts. They are proud of their traditions and observe them year after year with celebratory excellence. They are willingly excited to invite the 위 국 - wey-guks (foreigners) into their rituals as a way of showing off their cultural pride. I noticed again, not for the first time the ritualistic symbolism engrained in the hearts and mind of Korean people.

rastas gone, another day dawns

After 5 years the dreads come off in a fury of scissors and red wine. Only two bottles later and I am staring in the mirror contemplating vanity and a slew of history. Dreadlocks, in pop-culture are most closely associated with the Rastafari movement beginning in the 1930's in Jamaica and Bob Marley himself. They actually have lengthy accounts in different cultural groups throughout world history including ancient Egypt, Greece and India as far back as 2500 BCE with the Dreadlocked Vedic deity Shiva and his followers, from Christianity to Hinduism. Even King Tutankhamun's dreads are still intact to this day.

Old generation Rastafari people take non-violence, non-conformity, communalism and solidarity as a religious way of life. They believe that the late emperor of Ethiopia, Haile Selassie I, later named Ras Tafari as the coming savior destined to lead the Rastasfari (hence the name) to freedom. The word "dreadlock" comes from the word "dread" or fear and horror. They were said to look “dreadful” while disregarding the general narcissism and vanity that infected conventional conservatism of the day and may still.

Somehow through the fashion police and modern day status symbols conjured by dreadlocks, us newbies have lost the true meaning in their representation. Seeing those who have dreads as herb smoking Reggae fanatics is a severe stereotype, albeit true in many cases.

Why me? Ever since a taste of freedom tickled my imagination, the lust for adventure began to cultivate in the folds of my training bra, not yet filled with the flesh of my innocent bosom. I felt a compelling urge to question why; to search for a light in the dark of a controlled suburban existence. My parents supported me unconditionally (and still do) in their hearts yet voiced (and still do) their fervent objections to my fast-paced, impulsive decisions. Still, out of respect, there was (is) no stopping me. Having the dreads in the first place meant for me a shunning of conformity and breaking down the stereotypes of beauty. We, as a western society place too much importance on physical appearance. We live futilely on the surface and miss the allegorical boat of life’s true meaning. 5 years is nothing in the complex yet insignificant history of human kind. But in these 5 years, I have in some small way begun to grow in my search. I do not consider myself to be Rastafari, as stated above, I do enjoy the casual glass (or bottle) of red wine from time to time. I do live in the present and although I tend to shy away from my privileged North American upbringing, I do not deny that I am a product of my surroundings. All the more reason to keep exploring, keep asking questions, keep learning and keep reflecting. Symbolically, the cutting of my dreadlocks signifies a new epoch of my life; an unmistakable feeling that has washed over me. This has not been a journey alone. Many people have influenced my life and thanks to those, I am beginning to see clearly now.

At least I am about 10 pounds lighter so I'll be able to climb stronger.

(This is my warrior making a joke)

Broken toe? What broken toe?

The injury is in the past and I am feeling stronger than before. Climbing offers residual spirits of passion to awaken conjured by action. Once again I take the sharp end. I was fortunate enough to travel eight hours on busses and trains to the rolling hillside of Korea's south-west corner again to meet and climb with one of the world greatest. Sharma and his equally gifted girlfriend, Daila Ojeda were promoting Evolv's new signature series designed by Sharma himself. Evolv shoes, made from synthetic materials are the most "vegan-friendly" climbing shoe on the market. As a company, they are making strides in sustainable designs paying respect to the environment. (as all companies should. Even if this wave becomes trend, no harm done).

In country life news, I am planting a garden in the highschool greenhouse. Being a little anxious, patience weans on the verge of hasty decision. Zucchini, Squash, Tomato, Snap Peas, Green Beans, Bell Pepper, Hot Pepper, Eggplant, Spinach, Dill, Parsley, Chives and Basil await in slumber beneath the fertile soil in anticipation of pokeing thier little heads towards the sun. Old Man Weather can be a tricky son of bitch. He teases us with sunny days and then takes it back like a spoiled brat.

I have finally updated my poetry blog. No sense mixing business with pleasure. Please, have a look.

www.picklepresspoetry.blogspot.com

Peace out for now.

A Sharma filled weekend

Thai Offerings

You know when something makes you so speechless and you fight within yourself and through your limited vocabulary to express the feelings conjured by this something? Well, Thailand and its energy is this something.

Elephant rides in grandious jungles dotted with Rubber trees that emit foul pungent scents; sand-in-hair and jelly fish stings; 1 dollar morning mango-coconut sticky rice from the Chicken Lady (locally doned); early morning beach front yoga sessions; gapped-mouth catfish desperately pileing on top of each other starving for brown-bagged 50 cent fish pellets; top-ropes necessary with one chaco and one shoe, splunking around in the pitch black underground, crawling out of grandiose caves peering upon endless sand 200 metres above the crashing salt water waves; hordes of monkeys playing whistfully in a playground of trees; listening to reggae beats as the orange and yellow setting sun slides down towards the horizon and blinks hiding its head once more. Thailand has only teased me with a corner of the country and is complex culture, I long for more.

The Mecca of Southeastern Asian Climbing. Ton Sai. (and broken toe torture)

I start my Thailand adventure with a 4 hour wait in the Bangkok airport. As per usual, my taste buds invite me to try some authentic Thai airport food and I opt for the Mushroom Tom Yum soup. The intensity of the spice steals my breath as I inhale the pungent lemongrass and hot-headed chili. I cough under my breath as tears burst out my eyes and run furiously down my face. On lookers gaze and issue a solemn "I've been there" sympathy glance. The lethal flavour teases me and I, with delicate effort, try to enjoy this war on my throat. At least this is the only war I have to personally deal with. Don't we wish it was the same with the rest of the world. In Korea, it is impolite to blow your nose at the table. I wonder if it is the same here?

While sitting in the airport shuttle on the way to Ton Sai peer, I had overheard a woman and her mother discussing the place of interest. Since I assumed they were headed in the same direction as me, seizing the opportunity to satisfy my curiosity, I shared my mutual interest in this mysterious place. Yori, her mother and her small baby boy, Kian, joined forces on the road to climbing paradise.

I sit on the beach because climbing has stuttered to a halt. Why? It seems unfortunate that the young lass has indeed broken her toe while preforming high wire slack line shenanigans. Sober and all, her wild balance, bereft of any fault, had oh-so dangerously snagged a toe on the way down. Yes, I fell off the freeking slack line. Now with not a single pitch climbed, I rest, ice, compress and elevate my foot as the back and blue purple swirls that call themselves bruises change and morph daily. In this climbing paradise, the walls of limestone grandeur taunt me. Their black streaks bleeding down over colossal caves and huecos perfect for a few fingers hurt my heart. Fortunately the crew that manifests itself here on the beach has sympathy, albeit with friendly teasing hand in hand.

I have been forced to hobble along slowly. This allows me to examine a side of nature once lost in rapid foot work. I am seeing the small details within dense jungle foliage and sun bleached white sand beaches. This makes me smile.